My Dirty Professor

by Cassandra Dee

  “No, it’s me,” I’d choked. “I’m just not ready.”

  Chip had perked up at that.

  “Well, no worries. That’s nothing that time can’t fix,” he’d said eagerly, sitting up straighter. “If we hang out a lot together, I’m sure you’ll feel more ready as the year goes by,” he’d added with a hopeful look in his eyes.

  And I hadn’t been able to take the puppy dog smile, or how his eyes had pulled down at the corners. So I’d nodded silently, unable to explain my feelings and how tangled my thoughts were. Because even though it’s been a year since Stone disappeared, my heart’s still with the alpha male. I think of him every day as I lie alone in my dorm bed. My body still catches fire when I dream of the big man, his touch and his caresses.

  In fact, there’s been more than one instance when I’ve moaned his name in my sleep.

  “You say some weird things in your sleep,” my new roomie Cara had remarked one day, shooting me a curious look.

  “Oh really?” I’d asked nonchalantly, my heart thumping. Oh god, hopefully I hadn’t screamed anything like “Touch me Stone!” or “Take me here!”

  But Cara had just shaken her head and buried her nose in her book again.

  “Yeah, you said the ‘The elevator’s on fire’ or something like that,” she’d commented eventually, avoiding my eyes. “It was weird.”

  I’d colored. It had probably been something along the lines of “My body’s on fire” or “My pussy’s on fire,” but it was a good thing Cara had interpreted it as “elevator.” I prayed that I wouldn’t sleep talk again and give myself away.

  But that’s the extent of my interaction with Stone these days – all in my dreams. I simply had no idea where he’d disappeared to. Our biology sub had become permanent, and I’d never had a chance to spend another darkened afternoon in the locked classroom again.

  Instead, my life had become totally mundane. I’d graduated from Spencer and enrolled at State, going through the motions by dutifully attending class, studying, and even half-heartedly making friends. But I’m so distracted that my new friendships are shallow in nature; the girls are more study buddies or casual acquaintances. My only real friend is still Mindy from back home.

  “Hey, girl,” I dial her up. Min had decided to live at home while attending cosmetology school because she wants to be a make-up artist for celebrities, doing camera-ready contouring and even light Botox. I guess you don’t have to be a doctor to administer that stuff; you can be a licensed aesthetician. Mindy is totally into it.

  “Hey, girl,” she manages to utter before she’s interrupted. “Boomer! Go away!” she screeches before the slam of the door rings out over the receiver.

  I sigh. Despite the fact that we’ve graduated, there are some things about life that haven’t changed at all.

  “Heya,” she greets again. “Sorry about that. What’s new?”

  “School’s okay,” I say listlessly. “I wish I were at home with you.”

  “No you don’t,” she disagrees encouragingly. “What, you’re dating Chip McCreighton now, right? You should be having a great time at State.”

  I nod silently, miserable. “I know I should, but…” my voice trails off.

  “But you’re still thinking about Stone Phillips, right?” Mindy finishes for me, her voice compassionate. We’ve talked about this endless times, and she knows the routine. “I know, honey – that man took your virginity, so you’re still hung up on him. I know, I know. We all have a thing for our first; I mean, I still think about Jimmy McPherson sometimes, and that loser’s in jail now. That’s what our first does to us – we always have a soft spot for them. But Mr. Phillips is gone now, okay? You’ve got to move on; you have your whole life in front of you.”

  I nod miserably again. I know what Mindy is saying is true. I’m attached to Stone because he’d taken my cherry and introduced me to the wonders of sex. My body is still enthralled by him. But how can I explain my unexpected hang-up, how I still dream of him, of our conversations together, and our electric emotional charge?

  Mindy would never get it, so I change the subject instead. She’s tired of hearing it anyway, and I don’t want to wear her out.

  “I’m taking biology again,” I announce dully. “College level this time.”

  “Oh right, you never took the AP test,” mutters Mindy comfortingly. Without Mr. Phillips, I’d lost all of my motivation and skipped the test, forgoing any opportunity at getting a jump on college credit. “No worries. You’ll be amazing in class; you were always so good at that kind of stuff. Me, on the other hand,” she jokes, “I could barely read and write. I’m surprised Spencer graduated me.”

  I laugh at that. The truth is, Mindy’s family has more money than God, and they could have bought her a diploma from Spencer if it had come to that. But there’s no need to get into that. My friend is well on her way to fulfilling her dream, and I’m grateful to chat with her, even if for only a minute about nonsensical stuff.

  “Okay, well, thanks, Min. I’ve got to get to class now. Say hi to Boomer for me, will you?” I ask. The little boy has always been so cute; it’s hard to believe he’s in eighth grade now.

  “Will do,” promises my friend. “Now, go to class and kick some ass!”

  And with a smile, I hang up the phone and pick up my backpack. It’s time I get over my ex-teacher; I have my life before me, and I have to stop mooning over what shoulda, coulda, woulda been. It’s time to pick myself up and start anew. So with a determined look, I straighten my shoulders and begin walking to class. It’s a new me. Evie Jones is here to take the world by storm, and Stone Phillips and high school are in the rearview mirror now. I will force myself to move on, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much it takes out of me.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Stone

  Evie looks gorgeous when I catch a glimpse of her walking across campus. She’s put on weight, which only makes her more beautiful. Her curvaceous figure is even more exaggerated, and her boobs and butt are bouncing with each step. My mouth waters at the sight, my staff immediately punching out against my fly.

  Down, boy, I scold. What the fuck? You haven’t seen her in a year, and you’re already ready to fuck through a metal sheet.

  But that’s it exactly. I haven’t seen Evie in a year, and my body is dying for her. I’m so hungry for her that I’m ready to tackle her on the campus green and ravage her right here in front of dozens of passersby. She is so juicy and so delectable that my cock starts dripping. The front of my crotch grows wet, the fabric no match for the leaky faucet I’ve become.

  But just when I’m about to cross the green and assault the curvy girl, a hulk of a teenage boy comes into the picture, swinging his arm around Evie’s shoulders familiarly and making her smile at something. And her smile … god, it’s so beautiful. It lights up her face and makes me ache inside. Shudder, too, because the smile is for him, not for me.

  I squint again, trying to get a better look. That dumb fuckhead looks a little familiar. He is tall and really built-up, his sweater practically ripping apart like when Bruce Banner transforms into the Incredible Hulk. He has mud brown hair and … I squint again, catching a glimpse of raging acne on his neck, the red skin painful and slightly moist and oozing.

  His identity springs into my head just then. It’s Chip McCreighton, Mr. Hot Shot football player from Spencer. That dude followed Evie to college? What the fuck? This is a good school; how the fuck had he been admitted? But as another lug head comes up and punches Chip on the shoulder, the two guys like walking, talking refrigerators, it occurs to me. Chip must be a special athlete admit. The school enrolled him for football, not because of his intellectual achievements.

  But all I care about is my girl. My skin crawls at the way Chip’s arm is slung possessively around her waist and how he ushers her into the classroom, his hand sliding down slowly to almost grab her ass. I practically blow my top off then. That ass is mine to grab, mine to touch and fondle, and that f
ucker has just manhandled my property. Hands off, motherfucker!

  A group of coeds turn to look at me, their eyes wide and shocked, and I realize that I’ve literally been growling in my chest, my gaze murderous and my hands clenched in fists. Fuck, I need to get ahold of myself before I’m escorted off campus in cuffs.

  But fuck. I turn and slowly walk back to my car, my body trembling and shaking with rage and repressed need. I crave Evie. A year apart had been too much, it had been too fucking much, and I’m ready to explode at the seams. Specifically at the seam at my crotch. My dick is hard and aching. The mere sight of the voluptuous girl is enough to drive me into a frenzy and transform me into an animal. I have to see the girl, have to talk to her, have to make her understand why I’d gone missing … and why we should be together again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Evie

  “Hey,” I say, coming back to my dorm room, the door shutting behind me.

  Cara simply grunts in response, barely looking up. Her mousy brown head is buried in another book of Harry Potter fan fiction. Now don’t get me wrong, I love Harry Potter, but I’m not so crazy as to be reading offshoots of the main story – made-up adventures about minor characters who attend Hogwarts with Harry and Hermione. Those stories are too far-fetched, and besides, we are in college now. There are, like, eight books to be read for each class, loads of homework, and a shit ton of activities. I can’t be spending hours each day re-living my childhood.

  But Cara is different. She’s barely verbal most days, so I just sling my backpack onto my desk and start riffling through my bureau, looking for my swimsuit. I’d taken up swimming since starting college. The pool is one of the only places where I can relax. The beautiful light blue water, the monotony of doing laps again and again, just me and the black line at the bottom, calms me. And the truth is, it helps get my mind off Stone. Or more accurately, it’s a neutral place – a place where I’m alone with my thoughts and can think about my ex-lover as much as I want without feeling guilty, where I can let myself go and not berate myself for dreaming about him.

  So I pull my swimsuit on, struggling to get the tight nylon over my curves. Oh fuck, I’ve gained weight again, and the one-piece is super small, digging into my shoulders. The leg cut-outs are so high, they almost hit my belly button, and my boobs leak out the sides. Well, a tight suit is supposed to be good for racing, at least. Less drag in the water. Okay, so I’m not exactly an Olympic swimmer, but still, it makes me feel better.

  I throw on a cover-up and some flip-flops and am just about to head out the door when Cara finally looks up.

  “You got a call,” she drawls.

  I turn. “Thanks,” I reply tightly, trying to be patient. “From whom? When?”

  But she just shakes her head slowly. “Can’t remember, sorry.” She turns back to her book, burying her nose in that massive tome.

  I put down my gym bag and place my hands on my hips, suddenly pissed. “Cara, I need you to take messages. I know landlines aren’t popular anymore because people generally use cells, but still, when I get a call, I expect more detail than ‘you got a call.’ I need to know who it was and when they called. It’s not too much to ask, you know,” I finish huffily.

  Little impression that makes on the girl. She just grunts in acknowledgment, her eyes never leaving the page.

  So I turn to leave again. Hopefully, it hadn’t been the registrar calling. I’d been negotiating with them about tuition payments because I’m a little short on money this year. With my job at the on-campus coffee shop and a bunch of scholarships, I can almost cover the cost of school, but not quite. Hopefully, the registrar has come around and will let me make my payments a bit late this year. Once I get a summer job, I’ll have a lot more money coming in, and the financial strain will ease. Hopefully. Fingers crossed.

  “I remember now,” Cara announces suddenly, her head jerking up. “It was the registrar.”

  I groan internally. “Did they say anything specific?” I ask.

  “No,” my roomie mutters disinterestedly, “just said for you to call back.”

  Well, the issue at hand is so important, I can do them one better. Looking at the clock, I see it’s three. I can run to the registrar, chat with them, then hustle to the pool for a quick swim, and still make it to class at four. It’ll be a tight squeeze, but I need to get my tuition issue worked out as soon as possible.

  So I almost run across campus to the administrative building, my hair flying and my curves bouncing. Panting, I land at the window and whip out my student ID.

  “Hi, I got a call from you guys earlier. I’m Evie Jones. I’m here about a payment plan?” I announce breathlessly, my chest heaving. Damn it, this swimsuit is really tight, and I feel like I can’t breathe.

  The woman behind the window takes my ID, squinting as she punches my student ID into the computer.

  “Name?” she asks laconically.

  “Evie, I mean Evelyn Jones,” I correct. You never know when the whole bureaucratic machine will come crashing down because of a nickname.

  “Date of birth?” she continues disinterestedly.

  “February 20, 1997,” I reply.

  The woman just shakes her head, bored.

  “I show you as all paid up,” she says. “No outstanding balance.”

  I stand stock still. This can’t be right.

  “No, just last week I came in because I needed to figure out a payment plan with the school,” I explain slowly. “I owe State something like thirty thousand for this year.”

  But the woman is bored now, barely even looking up from her screen.

  “Nope, shows here your balance is zero,” she repeats, her voice flat. “Did you get some scholarship money? Or have some financial aid come in? Or,” and here she cackles to herself, “you got a fairy godmother maybe?”

  I shake my head, puzzled. None of those things had happened. I know there’s no more financial aid coming down the pike, and the scholarships I’ve been awarded have already been applied. So I press forward.

  “Well, can you see when my tuition was paid and who paid it?” I ask. This has to be a mistake, and I’m sure it’s going to all come unraveled at some point. “Surely, you can tell that from the system.”

  The woman stares at the computer again, flicking through a couple of keys. “Says here it was paid in full today,” she remarks, her eyes flicking to me. “Like I said, you got a fairy godmother?”

  I flip through my mental rolodex. Nope. There is no one who could have done this. Certainly no one I know has a spare thirty thousand and can write a check just like that. So I shake my head, mystified.

  “But does it say who paid it? Where it came from?” I ask futilely.

  “Nope. The computer doesn’t have that information. Just says $31,500.52 was paid earlier today. The check has already cleared,” she adds helpfully.

  And shaking my head again, I pick up my gym bag, dazed, and turn to go. Where had the money come from? It’s like a jackpot has fallen from the sky and landed on my head, showering me with clinking golden coins and easing my life of financial strain. This is so weird, an enormous load off my back. Maybe now I can take an unpaid internship this summer to bolster my resume instead of having to do double shifts at the coffee shop. So many opportunities have just opened up for me, and I’m mystified and elated at once, dazzled by my good fortune.

  So with slow steps, I make my way to the pool. Honestly, my workout is the last thing on my mind now, and I’m wandering around a little lost, like someone who’s just found out they’ve won the Megamillions Lotto. Suddenly, a big shadow descends over me.

  Slowly, I turn, still dazed and still on Cloud Nine. My eyes focus slowly. “Stone?” I murmur, confused. “What are you doing here? WTF, where have you been?”

  The big man chuckles. “Girlie,” he rumbles, his eyes ravenous, devouring me in my skimpy cover-up. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Stone

  E
vie has been wandering like a lost little lamb, her eyes big and dazed, ever since she exited the Financial Aid Office. And I know why. I’d gone in there and paid her tuition bill, making sure to bring the balance down to zero.

  The woman at the counter had resisted my efforts at first this morning.

  “And who are you?” she’d asked suspiciously, eyeing me up and down.

  Now I’ll admit, it’s not every day you get an alpha male in the dinky offices of Financial Aid, a dude who literally takes up all of the space in these tiny confines.

  “Stone Phillips,” I’d said peremptorily. “Here to pay the bill of Evie Jones.”

  The woman hadn’t been persuaded.

  “I can’t just hand out personal financial information,” she’d said tightly. “It’s confidential.”

  And I’d leaned forward, my manner slightly threatening.

  “Let me clarify,” I’d said, my voice low and rasping. “My name’s Hanson Stone Phillips, and I believe you’re sitting in a building my grandfather had built.”

  Because I’m a scion of the moneyed Phillips family who had made its fortune in packaging. We’d started off making paper boxes and wrapping paper but had soon branched into industrial packaging solutions, doing everything from the crates for Dole Pineapples in Hawaii to the shit that your laptop comes boxed in. So yeah, my family’s at the head of a massive empire, the money rolling in waves, and at that very moment, we’d been sitting in a building which my grandfather had endowed way back in the day.

  Upon hearing that news, the woman had immediately perked up, sitting up straight.

  “Oh yes, of course, Mr. Phillips,” she’d chattered nervously. “I’m sorry. Phillips is such a common name; I didn’t realize a member of the family was here.”

  And I’d sighed, leaning back. Her behavior was exactly why I didn’t use my first name. First, because Hanson is a lame name. Well, not lame exactly, but I just don’t want to be called “Han,” “Han Solo,” “Hannie,” or any number of juvenile nicknames. So I go by my middle name, Stone, instead. It works, and everyone has called me Stone since I was a kid.